Strict Dress Code

A Strict Conversation About Clara's Outfit

 

Clara: Mom, why do I have to wear this? I don’t want to wear skirts and dresses every single day, especially to uni. No one else does.

 

Mom: Because this is how a proper young woman should present herself. A well-dressed lady wears skirts or dresses, not pants like a boy. I will not have my daughter looking sloppy or unladylike.

 

Clara: But I don’t feel comfortable in this. It’s impractical, and it makes me stand out in a way I don’t like.

 

Mom: Comfort is not an excuse for looking inappropriate. The world will judge you based on how you present yourself, Clara. A young woman should always look refined.

 

Clara: I can look refined in pants too! There are plenty of elegant outfits that don’t involve skirts.

 

Mom: Enough of this nonsense. You will wear the outfit I have chosen for you. A white blouse, a cardigan, a pleated skirt, and matching heels. That is how a respectable young lady should dress.

 

Clara: But why do you get to decide every detail? Shouldn’t I have a say in what I wear?

 

Mom: Your say? If you keep complaining, I will add gloves and a headscarf to your outfit to ensure you look even more proper. Do you want that?

 

Clara: (hesitates) …That’s not fair.

 

Mom: Life isn’t about fairness, Clara. It’s about doing what is right. And you will walk out of this house dressed appropriately. Or would you rather I make your outfit even stricter?

 

Clara: (sighs) …Fine. I’ll wear it.

 

Mom: That’s better. Now stop fussing and get ready. I won’t have you leaving this house looking anything less than presentable.

 

A Strict Outfit Inspection

 

(Clara stands in front of a mirror, adjusting the skirt she was forced to wear. Her mother walks in, her eyes scanning every detail with a sharp, critical gaze.)

 

Mom: Stand up straight, Clara. Let me see you properly.

 

(Clara stiffens as her mother steps closer, eyes narrowing as she begins her inspection.)

 

Mom: The blouse—buttoned all the way up. I don’t want to see even the slightest gap.

 

(She reaches forward, tugging at the collar to make sure it sits perfectly against Clara’s neck.)

 

Mom: The cardigan—why is one sleeve slightly pushed up? Fix it.

 

(Clara sighs and pulls the sleeve down.)

 

Mom: The skirt… Good, it’s the right length. I don’t want it shifting too high when you walk.

 

(Her mother circles her slowly, eyeing the pleats for any sign of wrinkles.)

 

Mom: Stockings. Show me.

 

(Clara hesitates, then slowly lifts the hem of her skirt just enough to reveal her stockings. Her mother leans in, pinching the fabric between her fingers.)

 

Mom: No snags, no wrinkles. At least you got that right. But your seams—they are slightly misaligned. Straighten them. Now.

 

(Clara quickly adjusts her stockings, biting her tongue to keep from complaining.)

 

Mom: And your shoes… No scuffs, I hope?

 

(She bends down slightly, running a hand over the red heels, inspecting every inch as if even the smallest imperfection would be unacceptable.)

 

Mom: Good. At least you know how to keep them polished.

 

(She steps back, arms crossed, but she isn’t done yet.)

 

Mom: Your undergarments. Proper ones, I assume? None of those modern, inappropriate things.

 

(Clara flushes, nodding stiffly.)

 

Mom: Good. I will not tolerate anything less than full modesty.

 

(Her mother finally leans back, taking one last, slow look from head to toe.)

 

Mom: Much better. This is how you will present yourself every day. No more complaints. If I catch you trying to change anything, I will add gloves and a headscarf next time. Do you understand?

 

Clara: (quietly) Yes, Mother.

 

Mom: Louder.

 

Clara: (reluctantly) Yes, Mother.

 

Mom: Good. Now get going. I expect you to carry yourself properly today. No slouching, no fidgeting. And don’t forget—you represent me when you step outside this house.

 

(With that, her mother steps aside, allowing Clara to leave—dressed exactly as commanded, with no choice but to obey.)

 

Clara Meets Sophie at Uni

 

(Clara walks onto campus, feeling self-conscious in her rigidly chosen outfit. She tugs slightly at the sleeves of her cardigan, trying to shake the suffocating feeling of the inspection she just endured. As she reaches the courtyard, she spots Sophie, who immediately brightens at the sight of her.)

 

Sophie: Oh my goodness, Clara! You look absolutely stunning today!

 

Clara: (blinking in surprise) Huh?

 

Sophie: I mean it! Just look at you—so elegant, so refined! The way your skirt flows, the crispness of your blouse, that perfect little cardigan… You look like you stepped out of a vintage fashion magazine!

 

Clara: (awkwardly adjusting her collar) I… I don’t know about that.

 

Sophie: Oh, but I do! And that beret? Perfection. The matching shoes? So ladylike! I swear, you look like the definition of “prim and proper.”

 

Clara: (fidgeting) You really think so?

 

Sophie: Think so? Clara, everyone is always dressing so casually—jeans, hoodies, sneakers… But you? You look polished. It’s like you actually care about how you present yourself.

 

Clara: (murmurs) It’s not exactly by choice.

 

Sophie: (tilting her head) What do you mean?

 

Clara: I… would have much rather worn pants and a sweater today. Something comfortable.

 

Sophie: (gasps) No way! But you look so graceful in this!

 

Clara: (sighs) That’s what my mother says too. She insists I dress like this every day. She even inspects me before I leave home to make sure I’m dressed exactly how she wants.

 

Sophie: (eyes widening) She inspects you? Like, checks everything?

 

Clara: (nods) Down to my stockings, my shoes, even my collar. If I complain, she threatens to make my outfit even more restrictive—gloves, a headscarf…

 

Sophie: (softly) Wow. That’s… intense.

 

Clara: (looking away) Yeah.

 

Sophie: (pauses, then smiles gently) Well… even if it’s not what you would have chosen, you do look beautiful in it. I mean that.

 

Clara: (glancing down at her skirt, uncertainly smoothing the pleats) I just wish I had a choice.

 

Sophie: I get that. But hey—until you do, at least know that you wear it well.

 

(Clara forces a small smile, but the weight of her outfit still lingers as she walks to class, feeling trapped between admiration and frustration.)

 

Clara’s Struggle Between Resentment and Acceptance

In Class

 

Clara slid into her seat, smoothing her skirt instinctively, as she always had to. The fabric draped perfectly over her knees—just as her mother demanded—but to Clara, it felt like a weight pressing down on her. As the lecture began, she tried to focus, but her mind kept drifting to the stiff collar pressing against her throat, the tightness of her stockings, the way her cardigan sat perfectly on her shoulders, never shifting out of place. She couldn’t slouch. She couldn’t sit too casually. Every movement had to be deliberate, graceful—controlled.

 

She glanced around the lecture hall. Other students leaned back comfortably in their chairs, legs casually crossed in jeans, arms tucked into oversized hoodies, completely at ease. Meanwhile, Clara sat with her back unnaturally straight, feeling more like a porcelain doll than a university student.

 

She exhaled sharply. She hated how aware she was of herself.

At the Library

 

Later, Clara found herself at the library with Sophie, who still couldn’t stop gushing over her outfit.

 

“Clara, you just move so elegantly in that skirt,” Sophie whispered as they browsed the shelves. “Like, every step looks so poised.”

 

Clara sighed, running her fingers along the spine of a book absentmindedly.

 

“That’s because I have to be careful,” she muttered. “If I move too fast, the pleats might fold the wrong way. If I sit too carelessly, my skirt will ride up, and then I’ll have to adjust it—again.”

 

Sophie chuckled. “See? That’s what makes it look so graceful. You carry yourself differently.”

 

Clara turned to her, eyes sharp with frustration.

 

“It’s not grace, Sophie. It’s restriction. Every time I step outside, I feel like I have to walk a tightrope—one wrong move, and my mother will know. She’ll see a wrinkle, a scuff, an undone button, and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

 

Sophie’s smile faltered. “…I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

 

Clara sighed again, closing her eyes for a moment.

 

“I know you mean well, and I appreciate it. But when I look in the mirror, I don’t see elegance. I see a costume. One I didn’t choose.”

At the Cafeteria

 

During lunch, Clara’s awareness of her outfit only intensified. She sat with Sophie and a few other students, trying to eat as naturally as possible. But everything about her appearance demanded restraint.

 

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: Sit up straight. Keep your knees together. No slouching over your plate. Take small, delicate bites.

 

The others around her were relaxed—one girl sitting cross-legged in her chair, a guy in a hoodie laughing loudly between mouthfuls of food. Clara, meanwhile, had to remind herself not to brush her sleeves against the table, not to let her skirt crease too much.

 

At one point, she reached for her drink and hesitated. The way she had to hold the glass—fingers gently curled, movement controlled—felt ridiculous compared to how freely the others moved.

 

Sophie noticed her hesitation.

 

“You okay?”

 

Clara let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I can’t even drink water without thinking about whether I look ‘ladylike’ enough.”

 

Sophie frowned. “Clara…”

 

“It’s exhausting, Sophie.” Clara’s voice was softer now, as if the weight of the day was finally settling over her. “Every second, I’m reminded that this isn’t really me.”

An Honest Conversation with Sophie

 

Later, as they walked across campus, Clara’s frustration spilled out.

 

“I just don’t know what to feel anymore,” she admitted, crossing her arms. “Everyone thinks I look so put together, so elegant. Even you love it.”

 

Sophie nodded. “Because you do look beautiful.”

 

Clara stopped walking and turned to her. “But what if I don’t want to be beautiful like this? What if I don’t want to be graceful, or delicate, or ‘prim and proper’? What if I just want to be comfortable?”

 

Sophie was silent for a moment. Then, with a small smile, she said, “Then I hope, one day, you get to wear exactly what makes you happy.”

 

Clara looked away, blinking hard.

 

She wasn’t sure if that day would ever come.

Done